


color me in gold (lips like petals on my throat)

by twosetmeridian



Category: Twosetviolin
Genre: (also imagined), Almost Kiss, Canon Compliant, Clubbing, Dirty Talk, Dream Sex, Epistolary, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Imagined, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Light Angst, Love Letters, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romance, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism, canon compliant to real life, just a hint, omfg i never thought i'd use that tag, what am i even doing anymore lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24726427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twosetmeridian/pseuds/twosetmeridian
Summary: Brett discovers dirty love letters under Eddy's bed. In the spirit of friendship—burning jealousy notwithstanding—he vows to help out.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang, Eddy Chen/Toni Wei (past)
Comments: 219
Kudos: 582





	1. preludio

**Author's Note:**

> title from _colour me in gold_ by jp cooper.

_“It seems like every time I sit down to write about our bodies, I spin us something holy: our moans turned scripture, our mouths flooded with communion wine. I want to take you by the hips and build our gospel.”_

— SACRILEGE REDUX by Ashe Vernon

*

The first time Brett sees the letters, he thinks they’re for a prank.

It’s a hot Friday evening, and he’s taken advantage of Eddy’s night out with his friends by cleaning through their apartment. It’s not exactly a balanced act, their house chores, but they’ve agreed on how to make things work for their shared living space. Brett cleans and cooks; Eddy takes out the trash and makes them coffee and drives them anywhere they need to go. The arrangement works just fine.

And maybe he takes extreme pleasure from stripping down to his boxers to combat the Brisbane heat wave, but that’s neither here nor there. Eddy doesn’t need to know. He’ll never let Brett live it down.

Pushing back the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, Brett locks his fingers together and stretches his arms high above his head, rocks back and forth on his heels as he groans. He’s finished with his room and the hallway. Eddy’s room is next on the list, then.

Cleaning his own room’s like second nature to him, achievable with his brain in the clouds and his body on autopilot. His friend’s area, however, is another thing. They’re both fond of messy spaces, sure, but the other man’s a stickler for knowing _exactly_ where his items are, no matter where they’re buried or stuck behind or clumped up into groups. And that’s fine, that’s all good, but it makes for a more demanding chore.

Still, he’s gotten this far; might as well finish the job before Eddy gets back. Might even be a nice surprise for his best friend to come home to, not that he cares all that much about the bright smile Eddy gets when he’s surprised—no, _really_.

Brett hums the Tchaikovsky violin concerto under his breath as he wrangles the vacuum cleaner into submission, sticking the hose behind the cabinets and under the bed. _Beware all dust mites, and despair_ , he thinks.

He’s distracted by the phantom music in his head, and he isn’t really looking where he’s pointing the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner, exactly, and so when the roar of air splutters, it takes him a few seconds to realize it.

“The fuck?” Brett pulls back the hose to examine it—and stares. There’s a piece of paper stuck to the nozzle. A music sheet? No, Eddy’s too worshipful of his music sheets to leave them lying around, so. Plucking it free, he blinks the dust motes from his eyes and peers down at the first few lines.

> _If people ask me what keeps me up at night, what I think about before the first few notes of a concerto or the stillness after the applause, what haunts me through my every waking moment and every restless daydream, I’d tell them of you._

_What?_

Brett turns the paper around, front to back to front again like he’s maybe missed something, some stray line of text that explains—whatever the hell this is.

It says _Eddy_ right there at the bottom of the letter, the name penned with his best friend’s signature scrawl.

And wait just a minute, scrounging around under the bed again— _Jesus_ , there’s pages and pages more just like it. All of them letters, all of them with Eddy’s name written out on the bottom. What the _fuck_.

“What,” he murmurs to himself as he stares down unseeing at the letter in his grasp, the words blurring together for a moment before he finally gets a hold of himself and focuses. He continues reading—

> _The first time I met you, I thought of Beethoven’s 5th symphony. It was fate that brought you to me, and you probably thought I’d forget you immediately, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. You were every dream I had come to life. Did you know that?_
> 
> _Did you know I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you, from the start?_
> 
> _Did you know I wanted to become a lumberjack, once? Silly, I know. Guess I was silly too, wanting to build you something you’d treasure, like a house or an instrument. Something you’d put your hands on and adore. I’d give anything to have your hands on me._
> 
> _Fuck. I don’t know how to do this._
> 
> _Fine, maybe I’m weak - maybe I’m a coward. I can only tell you this through letters you’re never going to read, but let it be so. You don’t deserve the love of a man like me. You were made for greatness, sweetheart, and I’m only going to drag you down._
> 
> _So: here I am. Writing, and watching, and longing._
> 
> _I’ve got a concert. . . today, really; it’s 2am. I really fucking hope I get to see you there. Going to sleep now, thinking of you. You and you and you._
> 
> _Oh god, but I love you._
> 
> _I’ll write again tomorrow._

Brett drops the letter like he’s been scalded. In a way, he feels like he had—the fingers now left bereft of paper are shaking. Pain blooms somewhere in his chest, spreading like wildfire, and whatever psychosomatic kind of shit is happening around his sternum is driving him slightly crazy. 

Just slightly. Maybe if he pretends he hasn’t found it, hasn’t read it, maybe he’ll forget about it. Right, that’s the best thing to do.

Brett staggers to his feet and continues on cleaning the room, trying to cast away the thought of his discovery from his mind. 

*

But he can’t.

*

When Eddy gets home, Brett’s rummaging through his music sheets in a desperate attempt at acting subtle. _Everything’s fine and dandy here, yes siree. I did not just find some love letters you wrote under your bed like an absolute creep, no siree._

And Tchaikovsky himself must’ve found Brett’s efforts to play his pieces today altogether subpar, because the next thing he knows, his cheeks are flaming, heated over that last thought, and Eddy’s right there with a clear line of sight in his direction. _Shit._

“Hey, you okay, bro?” Dark eyes peer into his own, a worried shine to them that makes something in Brett’s chest give way. He can’t tell if it’s guilt or—or something else. “You look like you’re sick.”

“I’m fine. Just tired.” Brett smiles and swats the approaching hand trying to take his temperature away. “Just so you know, my back nearly gave out cleaning up all your shit, hey?”

“You cleaned my room?” Fuck, _there’s_ that brilliant smile he’d been waiting-not-waiting for. “Ah, sorry, man. If I’d known you were cleaning today, I’d have organized my stuff more.”

Brett shakes his head. “It’s fine, we already agreed on the chores. Now go away and enjoy your clean bedsheets.”

Eddy doesn’t need to be told twice. “Yeah, okay, good night, Brett.” He waits for the taller man to disappear down the hallway and into his room before he can finally take a much-needed gulp of air.

In the silence, he considers. He lays out the facts in his head like an inspecting officer.

Eddy’s written love letters. Love letters for someone. And he doesn’t know who the hell the subject of the letters is.

Jealousy tastes bitter on his tongue, his throat as he swallows it down. He focuses on that, so he can ignore the sour taste of grief lingering in the aftertaste. So what if Eddy’s in love? Everyone deserves to be in love, his best friend most of all after—well. After everything. He deserves someone constant in his life, and if he’s pining away for someone unattainable at the moment, then hey.

Brett might just be able to help out in some way, even as his heart is crumbling into shards of glass at the bottom of his ribcage.

Maybe—maybe he can keep reading them, just to get a better understanding of this nebulous figure his best friend supposedly loves. Maybe he can read one more. One more letter, and the thirsty creature of curiosity can be sated. That’s all. That’s all he can allow himself, for both understanding and self-preservation.

His knuckles tighten into fists. He’ll have to remember when Eddy leaves the house again.


	2. glissando

It's nearly a week later when Brett finally manages to wrangle some alone time at home. He hasn't realized just how much time he and Eddy spend together, wandering around like twins joined at the hip—which is as safe an analogy as he could think of; that'll have to do.

Now that he's purposely giving attention to the amount of time they spend together, it then follows that he realizes being with his best friend for inordinately long periods of time had been as easy as breathing. And fuck, he probably shouldn't look at _that_ too closely, or he'll start hurting real bad. So.

Onward to the more important current matters of his life, like this newfound mission he's taken upon himself concerning Eddy's mysterious crush, or whatever. He hasn't been able to get a chance to sneak around his friend's bedroom after that first time, not with Eddy frollicking around the house and his tendency to hole himself up in his room and practice until odd hours in the early morning. The only real chance Brett has to get an eyeful of those letters again is whenever Eddy deigns to wander out of the house without him, and when Olaf's call about some rehairing finally comes, he thanks every deity and Ling Ling for the other man's kindness—Eddy volunteers to visit, and Brett volunteers to stay behind.

He says _I need to practice_ , but really, he means _I need to read more of your letters, you romantic motherfucker._

Oh, he's pretty aware of the potential boundaries he's probably illegally, knowingly crossing, but this is important. It's for his best friend and his future happiness, a venture Brett's wholly invested in. Eddy will forgive him for the breach in privacy, he thinks. Anyway, he'll be way too distracted when he gets the girl.

Or guy. Or whoever. Brett doesn't care, _ha ha, you thought?_

*

> _Another cold night again. I hope you're staying warm. The dorms get freezing at times, but thank god for the heating, huh? Let's hope our heaters don't fail you tonight when you fall asleep._
> 
> _I always wonder what you dream about. I've never asked, and you never tell — I can imagine it already, your look of disbelief, thinking this question is a waste of your time. Forgive me, then, for my curiosity. You know all I want is to know everything about you._
> 
> _You smile in your sleep sometimes, did you know that? You smile in your sleep at some unknown spectre, and soon enough, I've learned how to envy the phantom guests you entertain at night. Hoping beyond words I'd be somewhere amongst them, if your mind theater would be so kind as to add me as an actor._
> 
> _How about me, you ask? Well._
> 
> _You wouldn't believe the dreams I have about you._
> 
> _Let me tell you a secret._
> 
> _I think of you, sometimes. Or maybe more than sometimes; I'm not shy about it, not here on paper, my pen keeping council with my wicked thoughts. My mind is restless when it isn't focused on music, Sibelius and Debussy some worthy diversions, and so most of the time, it's consumed with thoughts of you._
> 
> _Oftentimes, I imagine you as you are, your talk and your talent and the treasure that is your entirety, and my heart soars. And sometimes, I imagine you all spread out for me, a splendid feast for the taking, and I can't help myself. You know I think you're amazing. I don't think you know I find you beautiful._
> 
> _And darling, you make me hungry. You make me so goddamn hungry._

There's an aching between his ribs, a knife between his lungs as he reads. He has to take a breather at that last part— _hungry, you make me so goddamn hungry_ —and oh god, but he has to put a shaking hand to his mouth at that.

Brett lowers the paper to his lap, sitting cross-legged as he is at the foot of Eddy's nightstand, the cool metal of the bedframe digging into his lower back. His limbs are in repose, but he feels like he's just run a marathon, his heart banging against the iron bar rungs of his ribs, his skin slightly damp with sweat.

Shit. He isn't supposed to be getting affected. He's supposed to be picking out clues about the mysterious subject of the letters. _Think, Brett, think!_

Dorms. Heaters. Brett's suddenly 20 again, huddling under the covers as his roommates groan about the fickle heater in the dorms at the Con. He'd been so ecstatic when he and Eddy had finally managed to find a superior dorm room to bunk with Oliver and Vivian, and by _superior_ , he means a room with a good heater and a shower that actually produces hot water.

Thinking about Vivian brings a fair amount of uncomfortable memories, and so Brett turns his mind back to the clues at hand. With the mentions of dorms and the apparent aging of the paper, this must've been written back when they had been in uni. It narrows down the net considerably, but still—there is a fuckton of alumni to go through.

He needs more information. And so he continues to read.

> _Do you know they all ask about you behind your back? It wasn't as bad back then when we were younger, but god, you've grown up to be somewhat of a heartbreaker, haven't you? I see the trail of heart shards you leave behind; I know mine's just one pile in line._
> 
> _Tell you another secret? I get so green with envy, I might as well be a fucking vegetable._
> 
> _I know you'll fret, if you ever learn about this. It's okay. I've long since gotten used to the aching. It's - it's kinda grounding, you know? Like a thorn I can't dig out, it's buried so deep._
> 
> _Always the untouchable one, they call you. You'd take them out to dance and kiss them all sweetly and bring them home for a good long fuck, but you never stay. You never chase. You never wait around for anyone or anything. Crumpling hearts in your palms like wet tissue paper, and hell, but they all come crying to me in the end. Always cleaning up after you, there we go._
> 
> _But hey, you wanna learn something?_
> 
> _God knows I've spent a thousand prayers hoping you'd turn my way._

Dimly, his mind registers the distant jangle of keys, the creaking of a door, the slow approach of measured footfalls, and _oh fuck oh shit._

Brett has never moved so fast in his entire life. Vov Dylan, eat your heart out; Brett's fingers yank the letters down under the bed and wipe the sweat from his face faster than 40 beats a second.

When Eddy opens the door, Brett's standing in the middle of the room with his face scrunched up and his hand hovering—unsure, oh _god_ —by his chin. They stare at each other within the space between two heartbeats, and then:

"Brett?"

His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. He spends a few breathless seconds trying to _un_ stick it before he gets to respond. "Oh, uh, hey, Eddy."

Eddy narrows his eyes, his lip curling up in a half-smile. "Hey yourself, bro." He looks around the room before his eyes return to Brett. "Whatcha doing here?"

He's probably not going to get any awards for his acting, but years making skits can turn out to be an education in play-pretend all the same. "Oh, y'know. My rosin got lost again; just wondering if you took it or something."

"Ah—well, I didn't take it! Go check your case. You usually leave it there, right," Eddy mumbles, moving towards his closet, and yeah, in his blind panic, Brett might've forgotten for a split second just who he's trying to fool.

Of course the rosin thing isn't going to work all that well on Eddy, _Brett you idiot_. Eddy knows him too much for something like that.

"Right. Yeah. Yeah, you might be right, I should check it again." Brett's about to tuck his tail between his legs and flee, but then a warm hand lands on his shoulder as he moves to the door, and he knows escaping isn't gonna be an easy option. _Fuck._

"Are you _sure_ you're okay, bro? You kinda," Eddy trails off, eyes flickering somewhere over Brett's shoulder for a second before they latch onto the other man again. "You've been kinda off recently. Anything on your mind you wanna talk about? You know I'm here for you, yeah?" He smiles softly. His mouth is so—something. Brett needs to leave _right now_. "Anything you need. Anything at all."

This, this unflinching kindness, this urge to comfort even in non-understanding: that pierces straight through Brett's chest far more than any kind of suspicion could. He has to take a few moments to calm himself before trying to respond in any way.

"Nah, I'm good," he finally gets out, a valiant attempt at a grin stretching his lips wide. "Just under the weather. It's hot as dicks everywhere."

Eddy, bless him, chuckles at his word choice. " _As dicks_ , huh? We should go out and get bubble tea; maybe that'll cheer you up."

"Yeah, yeah, we should," Brett laughs, relief shimmering underneath the outward eagerness for the blessed beverage. Thank god for the distraction that worked; he'd just barely dodged a bullet right there.

He's okay. _They're_ okay. Thank god _and_ Ling Ling.

But then: he remembers the letters— _a thousand prayers, hunger and envy and aching_ —and no. Brett can't just leave things so one-sided, where they stand right now.

"Hey," he suddenly blurts out, and Eddy's gaze flickers towards him questioningly, all too eager, and fuck it all, but the sight of him right then and there is too much. Brett has to look away, turn his attention to the whorls of stray fabric bunching out of Eddy's carpet. _He has to find a better fucking carpet_ , he thinks. "I just—I just wanted to let you know that whatever you need, I'm here for you too. Anything at all, I'm your guy."

Before Brett can even think to panic about the possible ways that last declaration could be understood, Eddy breaks into a wide grin. "Yeah?" He loops an arm around Brett's neck and half leads, half drags him out the room and into the hallway. "Thanks, Brett. It's good to know that my best friend is so, _so_ generous."

"Fuck off," he groans, but the starburst in his chest glows bright with fondness for Eddy, no matter what his mouth has to say about it.

And he means it too, that declaration. Anything. Anything at all, for Eddy. And if the solution to the ache he's read about can be found within those letters—

Well. He _has_ to keep reading, then, right?


	3. cantabile

Here is the truth as it stands—Brett's been head over heels for his best friend for the longest fucking time. It's not anything new; the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and so too, does his world spin and turn on the axis of Eddy Chen.

But here's the kicker: he's never going to tell him. Telling would be knowingly stepping into a spiked-lined pit. Telling would be throwing himself into incoming traffic. Telling means disappointment; telling means getting hurt. And oh, call him a coward, but Brett is scared. It's just not a thing that's ever going to happen, as far as he and his self-preservation is concerned.

But there are times, though. Oh god, but there are times when the words seem to pool at the valleys of his throat, a tameless river coursing through and carving out wounds he can never, ever recover from.

He'd been the type to scoff at the kind of love that changes people, the kind of love that turns a person inside out with no hope of reversal, but after looking across a stage at his best friend and feeling his heart wrench itself out of his chest, after _Eddy Chen_ —well. Brett understands just how potent, how _dangerous_ love can be.

Easier, then, to pretend he feels nothing. Stone-cold Brett Yang, master of the resting bitch face, the unshakeable half of the duo. It's better than the alternative, better than watching his best friend walk away with revulsion.

Pretending is the _least_ he could do.

*

The letters are starting to take a horrifyingly _dirty_ turn. And when he thinks _horrifying_ , he really means _uncomfortably arousing._

He valiantly pushes away all unwanted thoughts for the time being and turns his attention instead on pursuing his goal. For now, he's gathered that the letters' mysterious subject is someone Eddy's known for a long time, at the very least since uni, and an alumni of their conservatory. Within the social circles they run in, the cast of characters remains extremely diverse, thanks to Brett being a social butterfly and dragging Eddy along for the ride, and now, Brett has to think not only about the people in Eddy's year, but _everyone else_ as well. Fuck.

But all this work is good, really. Stopping to think about anything other than the Goal would spell immediate trouble; stopping would give the stray doubts an in to mess with him, and oh, but he does have doubts. Wanting a more solid foothold in a heart Brett had thought he had stronger standing in until the letters, and _god_ , he doesn't want to think about it, but the niggling thought persists, an itch beneath the skin with no means of relief. Jealousy is a bitter pill stuck in his throat, and he's got nothing to swallow it down with.

And to make matters worse, reading Eddy's longing in the letters has awoken something in him that he's long kept locked in a cage.

He's never been more acutely aware of the distance between himself and his best friend until now. His skin runs hot and cold, like a broken thermometer on steroids, whenever Eddy even so much as brushes against him, and he's lost so much time staring off into space trying to reorient himself when he could be practicing, or making more videos for Twoset, or literally doing _anything_ else. It's a fucking hindrance to his normal everyday life, is what it's becoming, and it won't be long before Eddy notices that something's up with him.

And that's just not something Brett can allow.

The only way out of here—the only way to ensure Eddy's happiness and Brett's mental stability—is to figure out who is supposed to be on the receiving end of these love letters. The only way out of here is to figure out the one person Eddy loves most in the world—and Brett _will_ figure out who that fucker is even if it stabs him through the heart with a knife for the rest of his days.

*

> _I've thought of you at night when I'm all alone._
> 
> _The dark is a respite from judging eyes and distractions. I can think of you as much as I damn well please, and tonight, I'm in the headspace for sacrilege._
> 
> _Naughty, my mother might say, and - fuck. She has no place here. Here, where I'm kneeling at your feet, spread out butterflied and ready for the taking? No, no mothers or fathers or any figures of authority are allowed in the bed we share in my mind._
> 
> _Here, in the silence, in the quiet, in the dark - I'm allowed to touch you more than I already can, in the light of day. I'm allowed to touch you the same way you've allowed others to touch you, and goddamnit, this is not a period of time I'm going to waste._
> 
> _You talk a lot, you know that? In love with the sound of your voice, they say, but I know better. You've so much going on inside your head that your mouth doesn't give you any other choice but to let some of those thoughts out. It's amazing, really. I could listen to you all day, if I could._
> 
> _Maybe that's the standard I'll aim for, when I have you right where I want you - make you revert to our mother tongue, and then to no words at all. Only sweet love sounds, and darling, even the great composers will have nothing on the symphony I'll make of you._
> 
> _So I think of you, and the coil in my chest untwists itself in the aftermath, and I drift off into the dream world with a sated smile on my face._
> 
> _The fantasy is enough, for now. It'll have to be enough. Until the next time I see you, until the next time I can watch you laugh and continue living our best lives together._
> 
> _Until the time I can finally hold you close and tell you I love you._
> 
> _I'm a patient man, sweetheart. I can wait on you forever._

*

(And thus, here's something he'll take to his grave—)

All the repression he's been doing must've broken something in his mind, because he very rarely has dreams of the explicit kind. For all the longing pulsing through every fiber of his body, he doesn't think of flushed cheeks, the sensuous slide of skin against skin, the fever spark of coming together shivering up his spine.

His mind has been compliant. His mind has been controlled, tied down by his restraint for a long time. But then he closes his eyes that night, and _there_. Oh god, the images, the fantasy, the _craving_ : there they are.

Never mind the repression: it's _definitely_ the letters that have broken him, thus.

Eddy's leaning over him in this dream, fingers teasing all the angles and hollows that make up Brett's body. Eddy's caressing his chest, plucking at a pebbled nipple as the shorter man arches off the bed, mouth gasping for air.

Eddy's nibbling at his ear, whispering "I'll take care of you, baby," wrapping his hand around Brett's length and tugging a string of obscenities from the lips he'd left red-kissed. Eddy's stroking him into finishing, eyes dark and blown wide like he can't get enough of this, can't get enough of watching Brett as he comes undone underneath him.

Brett blinks, and suddenly, he's the one straddling the other man, one hand fisted in Eddy's hair as he circles his hips, grinding down on that hard pelvis as his free hand teases at the curve of Eddy's ass.

He's swallowing Eddy's moan as he sinks down into that tight cradle of heat, mumbling "I got you, honey, I got you," pinning his teeth against the arc of Eddy's shoulder, tasting sweat and come and the wine of Eddy's mouth on his tongue.

He's losing himself in the _pull and push and you and me and together and—_

*

He wakes up expecting to feel different, but he doesn't, like, _at all_. The sun is shining, the world is bright and luminous, and even as Brett Yang sits on his bed with his release drying under the fabric of his shorts, the world keeps fucking spinning.

He orders pizza and pasta for breakfast because he can't trust his hands not to shake, and cooking with shaky hands isn't going to be safe for either of the occupants in the house, really, in both the culinary-appeal and safety-hazard aspects.

He looks at Eddy from across the dining table, imagines licking up the length of that pale column of skin, and then shoves a tragically empty fork into his mouth, feverishly chanting _letters letters letters_ in his mind, a crucifix held against the demons threatening to break his composure.

But then: he _is_ looking, and his heart is in his throat, and nothing will ever be the same again.


	4. tremolo

It takes a few more days of weary contemplation, a few more days of pacing back and forth and wearing down the floorboards before Brett finally takes a fucking hint: he probably can’t solve this all on his own. He needs outside help.

His hands haven’t stopped shaking. He can say it’s because of the heat wave, or the aftermath of the Dream That Shall Not Ever Be Mentioned In Polite Company, but really, it’s the not-knowing that grips him tight, holds him down. It’s the yearning that sticks to his teeth like tar, leaves a bitter sting on his tongue. It’s maddening, is what it is.

It is at this point in time that Brett finally curses himself for his curiosity. God knows he could’ve left the matter well enough alone, but _no_ , he just _had_ to read one letter, and then he just _had_ to read one more letter, and now he’s stuck continuing to read letters even as his world is crumbling around him in a pile of ashes and smoke. _(Please excuse the dramatic line of thought; nothing to see here, everything’s fine and well and—)_

He’d thought he’d be able to hold out just a teensy bit longer, but there’s nothing for it. He is very slowly inching down the path to a complete and utter breakdown. And so he calls a number he hasn’t called in a good long while.

“Hello?”

He’s never felt more powerless nor more pathetic, like _ever_. Brett forces a jovial tone to color his greeting. “Hey, Zoe.”

“Hey, Brett! How are you?” There’s surprise there; Zoe’s not even bothering to hide it. Speaks volumes about how out of character this entire thing is from her perspective, and _oh god_ , this is ridiculous. He’s never going to let _himself_ live this down. “What’s going on? You don’t ever call when you can send a text.”

“I was just, uh,” Brett pauses, wondering how to properly word his request without sounding like an utter moron, or a siren screeching _MY BEST FRIEND’S IN LOVE WITH SOMEONE AND I’M FUCKED_ from halfway across the country. He takes a deep breath, clears his throat, and continues. “I just wanted to run something by you real quick, if that’s okay? You’re not busy, are you?”

“Right, erm, no,” Zoe trails off. “Well, I just finished practicing, so good timing! Lloyd’s coming to pick me up for dinner, but he won’t be for an hour, anyway.” There’s the rustling of fabric from the other end of the line, the creak of a swivel chair. Brett bites his bottom lip and shoves down the inkling of hysteria threatening to grow in the pit of his stomach. “So. What’s up?”

 _Just suck it up and do it, Brett Yang._ “Do you remember any, uh, people Eddy might’ve fancied or pursued back in uni?”

Silence. His breathing’s probably too-loud in Zoe’s ears. “Why?”

“We’re doing a video about it for Twoset, some storytelling and so. Y’know. I just wanted to know if I could tease him about it. Vaguely, of course. Call him a heartbreaker or something.” He’s rehearsed this part a few times in the shower, but it still sounds way too suspicious. _Shit._

Zoe hums the way he remembers her doing after their performance of Navarra years back, a whole decade ago: something like understanding, something like mild concern. It takes him back to that stage at John Paul College, and okay, that memory settles his nerves a little bit. “Brett, a little friendly reminder that _you’d_ be the one I’d call a heartbreaker, not Eddy.” He can hear the indulgent smile in her voice as she explains. “Kinda hard to remember who Eddy might’ve been with when all my mind’s giving me are images of your admirers. Remember all the anonymous phone calls and texts you got after every concert afterparty? Oh my god. You were a legitimate phonebook at one point, I think.”

And when she puts it that way—

_Crumpling hearts in your palms like wet tissue paper, and hell, but they all come crying to me in the end._

_God knows I've spent a thousand prayers hoping you'd turn my way._

—Brett grits his teeth. Impossible. Unthinkable. He does _not_ have time for delusions, secretly desired or otherwise.

“Never mind me, Zoe,” he says in a way that is pointedly _unlike_ begging, “I’m asking about Eddy here.”

Thank the Lord above that she takes pity on him right then and there, tapering off her laughter and segueing into something a little more serious. “Well, I can’t say I recall anyone in particular. He’s not really an open book, yeah? And we’re not as close as the two of you are, so I don’t have much to go on.” She pauses, and fuck, Brett knows exactly what she’s about to ask him next. “Why don’t you just ask him yourself?”

“Out of the question.” This is said very matter-of-factly.

“Why?”

 _Because then he’ll wonder why. Because then he’ll have to give me an answer I don’t think I’ll be able to handle, and that alone scares me. Because then he’ll_ know _, and that is unacceptable._

But of course he can’t say any of that.

“Then it wouldn’t be much of a thing I can tease him about, right?”

Zoe sighs. Brett doesn’t, but it’s a very near thing.

*

In hindsight, the phone call to Zoe had been a mistake. It had answered none of his questions, opting instead to feed the fire of an impossible Idea. A wondrous, gut-wrenching Idea, but impossible nonetheless.

And that. That just would not do.

*

So: Brett flirts with danger in about the same way he tries to sight read a complicated Baroque piece in one go without making a single mistake. Which is to say: he’s trying his best—really, he is—but he is ultimately absolute shit at it.

Eddy’s gone out again, but just for groceries this time around. There’s not much of a window of opportunity here, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make the most of what he has to work with. And so, he makes his way back to his best friend’s room, plucks another letter from under the bed.

He’s got a damp washcloth on the table to be used as a cleaning prop on the off-chance Eddy catches him in the act again. He’s got a cup of bubble tea in his hand, cool against the sudden clamminess of his skin. He’s got this.

Brett takes one steadying sip to calm his nerves, and then he dives in.

> _Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I scared the shit out of you._
> 
> _The less I think about the accident, the better. What happened - it was no one’s fault but my own. Who knew a bike ride could be so dangerous? But then again, you did warn me about the rain. I should’ve listened. I should’ve stayed with you._
> 
> _You can say “I told you so” now. Go on._
> 
> _I’m not going to tell you why I went out there that day. It had nothing to do with jealousy, of course not. It’ll be our little secret, between myself and the pavement. It’s not something I’d ever want you to know._
> 
> _Here’s a revelation in exchange - lying alone in that hospital bed, drugged out of my mind, I had never felt so alone in my entire life. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t move, and you weren’t there. The rain had seeped into my bones. I felt cold all over._
> 
> _But then you came. You came to me, and you brought all the warmth of the sun with you. You came to me in that hospital room and clung to me like I’m something worth holding on to, and there they were, all of a sudden: your hands. Oh god, but your hands._
> 
> _Every broken bone was worth the touch of your hands on me._

Oh, but Brett remembers this, remembers what happened in shades of grey and blue, petrichor in his lungs. He has to put down the paper for a while, his fingers are trembling so bad.

He hadn’t been with Eddy when the bike accident happened. He’d only heard about it an hour later through the stiff, formal tones of a nurse from the local clinic, identifying him as Eddy’s emergency contact.

He remembers fear, yes: brimstone in his gut. He remembers anxious fretting in the lowlight of a white corridor, shaking fingers wrapped around countless plastic cups of bland coffee. He’d thought the worst had happened, and he hadn’t been able to calm down until the doctor came around to deliver the news of the extent of Eddy’s injuries.

His fingers hadn’t stopped shaking until he’d reached the bedside of his best friend, until he’d taken Eddy’s hand and felt the pulse thudding stubbornly away at his wrist.

God, it’s horrible, having to relieve those events again. Brett drags a hand over his face, wipes sweat off his forehead, downs nearly half the bubble tea in his haste to remedy the dry wasteland of his throat.

Okay. Okay. Steady on.

It’s apparent the subject of Eddy’s letters had also visited him in the aftermath of the accident—

(And hell, but something in Brett’s stomach churns at the thought. Even an idiot would be able to tell that he is resoundingly jealous.

 _You came to me, and you brought all the warmth of the sun with you_ , but had Brett not brought a little bit of comfort somehow with bubble tea and sweaters and private bedside concertos as Eddy recuperated?

 _You came to me in that hospital room and clung to me like I’m something worth holding on to,_ and had Brett not done that very thing too, so overwhelmed with relief that he’d let loose a few tears into Eddy’s hospital gown?

Ah, but there’s the difference, really. Brett may have been there in his capacity as a friend, but there had been no way for him to compete with the love of Eddy’s life. He had been a balm, but someone else had been the cure.)

(There are no words for the ache in his chest.)

—but that fact means nothing when Brett thinks about the myriad of faces that had paraded into Eddy’s hospital room days after the incident. It could’ve been any one of those people, and he may be desperate, but he is _not_ desperate enough to start calling hospitals about certain patients from a whole decade ago.

Onward for more clues, then.

> _Fuck. I shouldn’t be saying these things, really. I shouldn’t be saying the pain was worth the closeness of you. I shouldn’t be saying I’m a little glad for this, because then you’ve been around for longer than you’re used to, longer than I really deserve. I shouldn’t be saying that if I had a chance to go back and redo things, I might just get on that bike again._
> 
> _Still - know I mean every word._
> 
> _I’m selfish, baby, I know. I know. Knowing doesn’t grant me any reprieve._
> 
> _This is how I have learned to love you._
> 
> _And so now, I’m stuck here in a wheelchair, and I find myself pondering things. There’s nothing to it when you’re barred from - doing almost anything, really. You’ve got a performance soon that I would’ve been in too if it weren’t for the accident. I’m sorry; I know you’re disappointed. You know I would’ve done anything to play with you if it were allowed._
> 
> _So, I find myself pondering things - wicked things, more precisely. I can practice Nielsen and Korngold, sure, but you’ve always been good at driving me to distraction._
> 
> _Honey, I’m curious._
> 
> _Where are your hands when you think of me?_

He bites his lip so hard, he tastes blood. _Jesus Christ_.

Brett sucks down the last of the boba pearls in the cup and tries his best not to think, tries not to let his fingers stray where his body wants them to, tries not to unravel himself at the foot of his best friend’s bed to be picked apart by the vultures of yearning.

_Where are your hands when you think of me?_

Oh, if Eddy only _knew_.

*

If Eddy notices the way Brett’s been indulging in far more cold showers than is strictly necessary, he hasn’t mentioned anything about it yet. Which is good, because there is no truthful answer to that question that won’t make Brett set himself on fire, theoretically speaking.

*

_Where are your hands when you think of me?_

_Everywhere,_ is the answer that comes hours later, unwittingly whispered against sweat-soaked sheets, in a bed that holds a body caught in sensory motion, _everywhere. Wherever you want them to be._

When he falls off the edge, there is a name on his tongue that he will not birth into being. Brett shuts his eyes tight and pretends he isn’t ruined for good.


	5. scherzando

How do you go on living with an ache in your chest that won't subside? How do you keep on moving forward with your life when everything within you wants to stay in the past, live in the contours of memories that aren't even your own? Brett doesn't know how anyone could do it, living with this kind of yearning. Maybe he really had fucked himself over with the whole reading-the-letters shtick in the first place. It wouldn't be the first time, really.

He's becoming more of a mess as days go by. Scatterbrained. Distracted. His excuse is the upcoming move to Singapore, but even _that_ reason doesn't carry enough weight to be believable in the long run.

It's only a matter of time, he worries, before Eddy figures him out.

(Brett prays to every god out there who can hear him that it doesn't _have_ come to that. Wishful thinking isn't always rational, but it at least lets him sleep at night.)

*

It's almost like an out-of-body experience, reading through the letters.

Brett _knows_ the events Eddy's mentioned on paper. He _knows_ the time period of the letters; he _knows_ what it must've felt like in the moments his best friend is describing, and it's made all the more visceral because he had _been there_. But reading the letters gives him a different perspective, gives him insight into the mind of Eddy Chen circa _Uni Days_ , and it's like an alternate reality entirely.

Who could've thought his best friend could love someone this much and for so long—since _uni_ , for fuck's sake! _—_ without him realizing it? Without getting a single whiff of it at all? It's a fucking travesty, is what it is. He thinks he's probably the only person on earth jealous of someone he's never seen and has only ever read about on paper.

(It would all probably make more sense if the subject were—him. But it _can't_ be him, can it?)

(Wishful thinking isn't just irrational; it can also be an utter _bitch_. He doesn't want to hurt even more when he's inevitably proven wrong. So: no.)

Steadying his breath is a chore, but it's one he knows he'll need later on. When he feels well enough to withstand the ache clawing up the walls of his lungs, Brett opens his eyes and begins to read.

> _We're going out clubbing again today at the Valley, you said. If it were only up to me, I wouldn't be out there rubbing elbows with strangers and drinking cheap shots of liquor on a school night, but - well. At this point, you know I'd do anything for you._
> 
> _You do know that, don't you? It's why you're always asking. Or maybe you don't know, and I've spoiled you enough to think that this is normal, that this treatment isn't special to you alone._
> 
> _I don't know which one is worse._
> 
> _Still, I've got my dancing shoes on and my hair slicked back, because I'm not going to half-ass things, not with you. If anyone's going with you to go clubbing, then it might as well be me._
> 
> _Look, we've already established the fact that I'm a selfish bastard. The way you move on the dancefloor is pornographic; it's a show I'll never stop watching. Ever. I could handle a hundred 3am walks home if it meant watching you be loose and free any day._
> 
> _But. There's a but here._
> 
> _I'm getting tired._
> 
> _I'm tired of sitting here by the sidelines, seeing the way you pursue strangers out there for a saucy dance or a quick fuck. They're people who won't ever treasure you the way I do. Who won't love you the way you're meant to be loved, who won't touch you the way you should be touched: like worship, like breathing. Intimate and necessary._
> 
> _I'm tired of watching you chase after other people. But god help me, I'll never tire of chasing after you._
> 
> _I can hear knocking on the door. It's probably you. I don't want to keep you waiting, so._
> 
> _See you, darling._

He presses a hand to his mouth and breathes, just breathes for a moment.

Okay. Focus. _Think_.

Brett had dragged him out to party many times in uni, but then Eddy had also gone out with his own friends back then. This doesn't help in any way to solving the matter, but. It wrenches some memories free out of the cages in his mind.

He remembers the clubbing. He remembers a whole great fucking deal about the clubbing.

*

(He'd been the one to teach Eddy how to dance, way back then. How to move his hips all naturally, how to ride the ebb and flow of the clubbing experience like he's meant to be there. It's a memory that'll never give way to time. It's stuck there in the darkest recesses of his mind, tar underneath his fingernails.

It goes a little something like this:

They're in an after concert party, headed straight there from the Con. Hazy strobe lights, darkened corridors. The club is Noah's Ark for a herd of uni students and stressed professionals and party animals and late night stragglers. The bass is booming and the alcohol is overflowing. Tonight is a night to feel alive.

He's a little drunk already. His vision's all blurry around the edges, liquid courage coursing through his veins. It's what gives him that extra push into wrangling an opportunity to teach his best friend how to dance like he fits in.

The multicolored lights cast kaleidoscopic shadows on Eddy's face. He's smiling indulgently, but the line of his spine is stiff, hesitant. Clearly, Brett needs to put more alcohol in him to make him more agreeable. "I don't get why we gotta do it _here_."

"Well, where the fuck else are you gonna make use of it? You aren't gonna dance in the orchestra pit, are you?" He considers his own words for a moment, like he isn't sure they had just come out of his mouth, and then shakes his head. "Not without me, at least. Now _move_."

So it's by this line of thought that Brett gets to drag Eddy out onto the dancefloor, bumping lightly against other clubbers as they sway to the music, getting a feel of the idea of dancing in the here and now. He's heady on the sensation, flying high with boldness, and when the idea pops up inside his mind, there is no barrier left between his brain and his mouth to meet it.

"Okay, enough of that—now I'll show you how to _really_ dance with someone here. Flirtatiously. You'll like it." He barrels forward, no time for regret; there's only what comes next. "C'mon, now, hands on me."

"Uh," Eddy says, but Brett's unyielding in this, snatching up both of his hands and clamping them down on his sides. When he releases his grip, the hands immediately climb back up somewhere more _polite_.

Brett doesn't want _polite_. He doesn't want _decent_. Fuck that.

"Not like that, idiot." He plucks Eddy's hands again, placing them lower down on his body. "Like _this_." He tightens his hold, and Eddy flexes his fingers, anchoring his hands to Brett's waist. Patting them to make them stay, Brett releases them and wraps his own arms around Eddy's neck, clinging to his back. This close, it's the perfect height to tilt his head up just so to look into those beloved eyes, the perfect height to maybe lift up on his heels a little and—

Teaching. He's supposed to be teaching him. _Right_.

"Rule number one: put your hands on them like you mean it." He feels the fingers against his skin flex again, pushing flesh to bone, and he bites his lip hard enough to nearly draw blood. "Make them feel special."

Eddy tilts his head, and they shuffle around the floor together like that for a bit. On one of the more daring flourishes in the music, Brett is suddenly spun around like a drunken top, laughing as he's turned around and around with one hand above his head. The laughter chokes off when he's pressed flush against Eddy again, back to front this time. "How's that?"

"That's it, just like that, baby." He's babbling. He doesn't know most of what he's saying at this point. The world's narrowed down to those large hands cradling his waist, the hot breath tickling his ears and making him shiver. "And then you just—you just dance. Swing your hips. Grind on them a 'lil, if that's your thing." It is _definitely_ Brett's kind of thing, but he still has his wits about him not to say it aloud.

To punctuate his point, he begins slowly rolling his hips to the bass-heavy music, the rhythm going slower, more sensous in its pacing, like a trance. Eddy shifts behind him, his body a long hard line of heat against Brett from chest to pelvis, and Brett's next words come out like a moan. "Slower, go slower. Make it enticing."

There's a pause, and then Eddy's slotting their bodies together, hips gyrating in an excruciatingly teasing manner. It takes everything in Brett not to gasp when he feels the press of an erection against his ass. Shit shit _shit_. "Like this?"

"Like that." He is greedy for more, and the alcohol has stripped away all inhibitions. He wants more, he wants it _now_. Brett pushes back and grinds down on that cock, relishing the soft noise that crawls out of Eddy's throat unbidden. " _Just_ like that."

It's the stuff of fantasies, is what it is: hot and obscene and _perfect_. So goddamn perfect. Brett closes his eyes and reaches a hand out behind him, curling around Eddy's neck and pulling him closer, tighter. A hot mouth skims against the side of his neck, the little exposed skin at his shoulder where his collar pulls away. _God, oh god._

He should—he should be saying something. _Teaching_. Something about teaching, anything. _Teach me what it feels like to be inside you, for you to be inside me_. Shit, no, god—

"You're good at this," he finally manages to gasp out, clearing his throat when the words come out all wonky.

Eddy hums in his ear. "You're a good teacher."

"Damn right I am." His lungs feel like they aren't taking in enough air, and he squeezes his eyes shut to try and piece himself back together. "I've taught you the forbidden knowledge, okay—you're gonna make someone very happy like this, take note."

And then, well.

It's a hard crash back into reality, when Eddy steps back and takes all the warmth with him. They separate, and Brett feels cold. Sober all of a sudden. Had he said something wrong?

The other man doesn't look him in the eyes when he pats his shoulder; a chaste course of action, considering what had just happened a few moments ago. "Right. Yeah. That's—that's enough practice, I think. I'll go get you another drink."

Eddy disappears into the crowd like a ghost, like mist, and Brett's hands can't reach for him fast enough.)

*

(This is after:

Brett is lying on the bed, too out of it to figure out that he's back in his dorm. All he knows is that the world is spinning, and the ceiling's probably going to collapse and crush him any time soon. Fucking architecture can't be trusted.

"You drank too much, you moron." That's Eddy. He'd know that voice anywhere.

He mumbles a response, but it comes out as gibberish. There's a faint chuckle somewhere out there in the dark, so he thinks Eddy must've gotten what he meant.

"Okay, listen," comes the whisper, accompanied by the feeling of his shoes sliding off his foot, and then his socks. When Eddy begins wiping down the sweat on his forehead, Brett's a hair's-breadth away from bawling his eyes out in the face of all that tenderness, all that care. All that love. (Not the kind he wants, but it's enough; it has to be).

God, when had he become a weepy drunk? _Keep it together, you fucker; Eddy is here._

"So, uh, I had fun tonight, yeah? I didn't think I would, but I did. We can go again if you want—just not on a Monday, you lunatic." There's shuffling noises, and then a soft blanket tossed over him. "I left some aspirin and water for you on the table. Also a bucket, if you need it." Brett hums in reply, thoroughly touched by the little details. "Gonna leave you to get some rest, okay? Good night."

"Eddy?"

The man stops in his tracks. Turns around. "Yeah?"

Doubt is a sudden stone in Brett's throat, blocking all the words from coming out. _Please stay. I want you to stay. I want you to stay for always._

In lieu of all that: silence.

Eddy's smile dims. Or not; it's too dark to be sure. After a moment more, he sighs, shakes his head. "Good night, Brett."

The door closes, and once again, he's left grabbing at nothing but shadows.)

*

(He'd had the opportunity, then. And yet, coward that he was and is and probably always will be, he'd done nothing about it.

Who'd ever want someone like that?)

*

"Wanna go clubbing," asks Eddy, all smiles.

"Mmm, not tonight," says Brett, barely looking in his direction. "Let's stay in and have some Thai, maybe a movie."

" _Saw_ it is, hey," replies Eddy, and that is that.

*

Now, they rarely if ever go clubbing anymore. The reasoning's two-fold in Brett's mind.

One: he's tired of chasing after people he knows will never measure up to who he really wants.

Two: he doesn't trust himself not to try and reach out again. He doesn't think he has it in him to watch Eddy walk away again.

And so he won't.

(On to the next letter, then. The sooner Brett figures out this mystery, the better.)


	6. lacrimoso

Brett likes to think he isn’t an idiot. He can’t really be one, not when he’d graduated with flying colors, various awards already tucked under his belt before he’d ever taken a step out of the doors of the Con. He likes to think Eddy isn’t one either; of course he isn’t.

So, really, not-an-idiot that he is, he should’ve seen this one coming.

“Something’s wrong.”

Brett glances over his shoulder, attention stolen from the laptop in front of him and the fifty open tabs concerning apartment rentals and emails to Jordan. Eddy’s looking at him, a faint shade of concern in those dark eyes. Brett turns his gaze back to the screen, because if they’re having this conversation, he’d rather not be looking at the other man at all. Just—no. “With what?”

“With you.”

 _Prevaricate, prevaricate, prevaricate._ “What makes you say that?”

“You’ve seemed distracted lately,” Eddy tells him, and goddamnit, there it is: the first drops of suspicion, trickling down on their heads like rain. Of course Eddy had noticed; _of course_. Brett has to quell the sudden urge to vomit his breakfast all over the table. “Is something—”

“I’m fine. Really. Maybe it’s just the stress talking.” He opens a new email draft and begins typing up a reply to Jordan, which ends up becoming more like nonsensical gibberish the more he babbles. “The move. How we’re getting our stuff there. Videos. Salaries and shit. Y’know. The usual.”

There’s silence, long enough to tempt Brett to look over his shoulder. Eddy’s eyebrows are knitted together. “ _The usual_ doesn’t stress you out like this.” At _this_ , his hand flies out in Brett’s direction, the gesture somehow encompassing the dark circles under Brett’s eyes, the quiet trembling of his fingers, the haunted look in his gaze.

And okay, _fine_. Fine. (Maybe it isn’t enough. He’s just not trying hard enough to hide all the evidence.)

“I’m fine,” Brett grinds out, firm and unyielding. His voice brooks no argument. He looks away, continues tapping away on his keyboard with more force than is necessary. Eddy is kind enough not to comment on it. “Don’t worry about me.”

He’s fine. _He’s fine_. He will be. He has to be.

(Heartache isn’t something he’s allowed himself to experience for years. Makes sense that he’s taking some time to get used to all of it again.)

*

> _I’d take you against the wall of the practice room, I think._
> 
> _It’s another little dirty fantasy of mine, if you will. A daydream of sorts to keep me company when the nights are cold and thoughts of graduating plague my mind. It’s both a boon and a curse. I’m sure you understand._
> 
> _Our world is expanding. We’ll all be going our separate ways after uni, living separate lives and separate careers - phone lines and social media posts are all I’ll have left of the people I care for._
> 
> _Most of all, I can’t help but worry: am I going to lose you to this wretched distance too?_
> 
> _Fuck, I don’t think I’m built for that kind of loving. I don’t know if I can abide a world without you near enough to see and hear and touch._
> 
> _But maybe I’ll have to learn how. And maybe this fantasy, the memories I’m trying to hold on to - they’ll keep me afloat. They’ll make do for the ache in me; god knows I’ve been trying my damnedest for you._
> 
> _So here we are._
> 
> _Let me tell you one._
> 
> _I’ve dreamt of taking you in the practice room countless times. You’d have your white shirt on, but then I’d have ripped it open: no buttons, no nothing. Your pants would be caught around your thighs, or maybe your ankles. I wouldn’t have had the patience to take them all the way off, not when you’re there, panting and hot beneath me._
> 
> _I’d be fucking you into the wall, in this fantasy. You fuck me in other places, elsewhere, but I want you ruined here, where you’re always dominating everything else, lord over instrument and music both. I want you to forget everything and let go. I want the walls of the practice room to remember the way you moan my name._
> 
> _I can play you like an instrument if you’d let me. Years of catching up to you has made me good at it. You won’t be left unsatisfied. I’ll make you feel good, darling._
> 
> _You’d be pulling at my hair, your nails digging into my back, your sweet mouth begging me for more. You’d sing the loveliest of notes - I’d swear I’d remember them all. And who cares if someone comes through the door and sees us? They’d have eyes for the gorgeous wreckage of you, but you won’t look at them. You’d have eyes only for me. I’d make sure of it._
> 
> _When I’m done with you, you’ll have to relearn every single concerto you’ve ever studied, every piece you’ve ever practiced. All the notes in your head will have my name on them._
> 
> _And so the practice room of my mind is blessed beyond all others, because it’s had me loving you in it._
> 
> _We’ve been together so many times in my head. In my dreams. In every thought I’ve had at night, all alone when I’m pretending the hand I’m touching myself with is yours._
> 
> _This is how I’ll survive the drought of you and the stinging pain of your absence I know won’t ever go away. They’ll keep me going until you find your way back to me._
> 
> _I’m waiting. I’ll be waiting. I’ll always be waiting._

*

How do you live like this, with the walls of your heart besieged day after day?

You dig trenches. You bolster defences. You prepare for when the walls fall.

(Turns out they’ve been living the same way, on the days leading up to their graduation. Brett’s amassed his own set of memories, his own set of fantasies that will never see the light of day.

It’s kept him afloat too. It’s helped him survive the drought, the absence too. Eddy has no fucking idea.)

*

So: Brett’s pretty sure the subject of the letters is a man. The mention of the dick as well as the throwaway comment about fucking and getting fucked—Brett shivers; it’s not an image he’s going to forget, _ever_ —is enough to point to that conclusion.

So: A man Eddy’s known for a long time since uni.

( _It could be you_ , _couldn’t it_ , whispers his traitorous mind, and _no_. It couldn’t have been, or he’d have known some way or another, okay, _shut the fuck up, brain_.)

Again: A man Eddy’s known for a long time since uni—and is _not_ Brett Yang.

Yeah. Okay. That sounds about right.

(There’s the sound of the glass shards of his heart scraping against the bone-rungs of his ribcage. Do you hear it?)

*

They’re in the living room when it happens.

In hindsight, Brett figures out just how easy Eddy’s been able to figure _him_ out, singling out the pieces of evidence that points to his discomfort, his restlessness, his ache. He also figures out what’s causing the evidence; it’s not that difficult to tell.

It’s in the way his heart speeds up, causing his fingers to tremble, causing his sweat to dribble down. It’s in the way Eddy’s presence kicks his heart into overdrive, and he suddenly feels like he’s freefalling down a thousand meter drop.

(Love can be such a frustratingly perceivable _bitch_. There’s nowhere he can hide, under the watchful stare of his best friend.)

“You’re overworking yourself.”

Brett doesn’t even try to hide the forefront emotion of annoyance simmering in his gut: a good enough veneer hiding the panic bouncing around his stomach like a rubber ball. “It’s nothing,” he tells Eddy, continuing to jab at his keyboard as he looks over their monthly budget on Excel sheets. “We’ve been through this discussion a week ago, okay; I’m fine.”

Eddy hums, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Well, maybe I can help you relax either way.” There’s the sudden warmth of two hands over the thin cotton of Brett’s shirt, long fingers curled around the curves of his shoulder, molding to the contours of his skin as if they belong there.

(Something prickles at the back of his mind. An alarm of sorts, a storm siren out at sea.)

Brett carefully does not flinch when those hands begin to knead the admittedly tense muscles under them. “What’s this, then?”

“Guess, genius; what do _you_ think it is?”

“It’s you about to murder me for persuading you to actually do Sibelius for 3 mil.”

He doesn’t even have to look behind him to know that Eddy’s rolling his eyes. “If I was going to do that, I’d be doing it in your sleep. Nah, this is a _massage_ , moron. Now lean back and let me work my magic.”

( _You can work your magic on me anytime_ , Brett thoughtfully does not say.)

He ends up leaning a little more backwards, still typing away, but the longer the massage goes on, he ends up growing boneless, folding fully against the back of his chair and closing his eyes. Eddy hadn’t been kidding; his fingers really are fucking magic, which: not helping his libido _at all_ , thanks.

“God, that’s the spot, yeah,” he groans, sighing as those strong hands work the knots out of his upper back, his shoulders, the edges of his collarbone. A thumb sweeps over his neck way too feathery-like, and a laugh wrenches itself from his throat before he can bite it back. “That tickles, you fucker.” There’s a chuckle right above him.

But then Eddy’s hand movements turn languid, pushing and kneading mixed in with more caressing, more stroking, soft and silken, and _oh god_. That is _not_ ticklish, no.

Eddy doesn’t seem to notice nor mind that the slide of his fingers is making the man below him shiver. Brett grips the chair handles so tight, his knuckles turn white; he’s trying desperately to keep the moan building in his throat behind the cage doors of his teeth. No. _No_.

But then those hands make their way across the length of his collarbone, inching closer to the collar of his shirt, too soft to bear, and he makes a noise he’s never made before in Eddy’s presence. (Dark with longing, heavy with pleasure.)

Startled, Brett’s eyes flicker open. Eddy’s looking down at him. His eyes are dilated. There’s scant inches between them now; he can feel Eddy’s breath whispering down his nose, his cheeks. His mouth falls open. That gaze moves to follow the movement of his lips.

He could tug him down. He could surge up and meet him in the air too. He could claim that mouth right fucking now.

(But—)

_I’m waiting. I’ll be waiting. I’ll always be waiting._

(Who is Brett to get in the way of that kind of love?)

He half-jolts off the chair; Eddy jumps back a few steps, the distance widening. ( _God, no, please, come back—)_ “Thanks for the massage,” he mumbles, storming away to the relative safety of his own room.

It’s a sight he’s never seen before. It should be impossible, but: there it had been, as clear as day on Eddy’s face. Brett had opened his eyes and looked into a mirror reflecting back his desire. He’d looked into those eyes and seen _want_.

He doesn’t even want to think about what that might mean. Not now.

Collapsing against the door, Brett slides down to the floor, the hot throb of his arousal tenting his shorts. He wastes no time untangling himself from his clothes and tugging at his cock, his free hand thrown over his mouth to keep the moans at bay until he finds release.

(When it’s over, he does not sob a name into his palm. He _doesn’t_. The walls are too thin to allow for that kind of recklessness.)

*

> _You’re moving away from Brisbane, you said._
> 
> _I knew it was coming. It’s not a surprise. I knew you were planning for greater things, but - Fuck it, I don’t know what to think._
> 
> _I know you’re a phone call away. I know we’ll still get to see each other whenever work or your family brings you back here. I know we’ve still got unfinished business to take care of, and you’ll be around if I need you, but._
> 
> _But you’re far away now, a whole different world around you, and maybe you’ll find what you’ve been looking for there. Maybe you find people who can offer you a better life than I ever could, and then you’ll stay. You can make new friends and fall in love with someone new, someone you might meet there if it makes you happy, but god, please._
> 
> _Please don’t forget me. Please. I beg of you. Don’t leave me here alone with only memories of you left to go on._
> 
> _I love you. I love you. Please._
> 
> _Don’t forget me._


	7. appoggiatura

It’s a fantasy in the dark, a prayer for the ungodly hours. It’s a question he only dares ask himself when he is all alone in the quiet of his room, when the search for answers wears him down, when the exhaustion permits his mind to wander where it ought not to. (The night will forgive his delusions.)

What if—

What if Brett Yang is the subject of Eddy Chen’s letters?

It’s a question, he thinks, that’s definitely on par with _will pigs ever get to fly_ and _will world peace ever be achieved_ , etcetera, the sorts. Improbable. Impossible, really.

It’s a question with two definitive answers. There's a _yes_. There's a _no_. One choice is way too painful to be discussed; the other is way too hopeful to be allowed. And so here we are in the in-between. _Maybe_.

For such a simple word, it bears so much weight.

It’s a knife through the chest, warmth in the cold. It’s light and darkness both. Salvation and damnation in equal measure.

It’s the _maybe_ that he entertains late at night, wandering through the pathways of memory. He ruminates, he wonders, he yearns. And as always, come morning, he tucks all his hopes back into the shadowed grooves of his brain, spills all his dreams down the rusted cranial drain, again and again and again. It’s nothing he isn’t already used to, this longing, but these days, the weight of Eddy’s words on paper feel more brick than feather the longer they trail on and on.

He imagines he can relate a little bit to what Atlas must’ve felt: the earth on his shoulders, a burden worth the world over. In the face of a love he’s long wanted for his own, it’s difficult to maintain his cool. The foundations of his world have forever shifted; they’ll never be able to right themselves.

 _Maybe_ —that glimmering word lightens the load, just a little bit. Carries him into the air, into a sky of possibilities where he can look and touch and love all he wants.

And yet.

 _Maybe_ is also a dangerous word. He is _not_ going to let it hurt him.

(He’s smarter than _that_ , at least.)

*

As much as he might want to, he can’t hide in his room or anywhere else that’s an Eddy-free zone in the apartment forever. They’ve got work to do, and surprise, surprise—Brett’s a fucking professional. Eddy’s a fucking professional. They know how to separate business from personal matters, even if Twoset is in fact the extension of their friendship and is almost inextricable from their personal lives. They can make things _work_ , goddamnit.

Though if Eddy keeps shooting him wounded puppy looks, Brett _will_ strangle him.

Jordon’s on the laptop screen, talking animatedly about the new compositions he’s writing up for them and blissfully unaware of the tension simmering between his two friends. At this rate, it won’t be long until he’ll notice anyway, so Brett’s trying his best to move the meeting along so they can get the hell out of dodge.

“Just need to tweak the last few bars. There’s something off about those notes.” Jordon buries his face in his hands, a staticky groan emanating from the laptop’s speakers. “Okay. Thursday’s good for you both?”

Brett glances at his planner and then nods. “Yeah, that works.”

“Mmm,” Eddy contributes.

“Great, okay. I’ll send you the email.” Jordon claps his hands together, a satisfied smile making itself known on his face. Brett’s about to breathe a sigh of relief—he hadn’t noticed; they’re almost in the clear—but then the man’s squinting his eyes, moving his head closer to the webcam like he’s spotted a streak of dirt. In a way, maybe he has. “So, uh. You guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” Brett responds immediately, beats the other man to the punch before Eddy can even think about opening his mouth. “Just worried about the move. Y’know how it is.”

“Right,” Jordon trails off, unsure, but then Eddy recovers from getting blindsided and opens his mouth to retort. What a fucker.

“Yeah. Brett’s just unnecessarily stressing over the whole thing. Can you tell him he needs to chill out?”

Brett rolls his eyes. He maintains eye contact with the screen, not deigning to turn his head to glance at the man beside him. “Well, _Jordon_ , you can tell Eddy to redirect his concern elsewhere, because I don’t need it.”

“I felt a disturbance in the force, Jordon,” Eddy fires back, unperturbed. “Can you please tell Brett I’m just really worried for his health and overall happiness and would really like to make sure he’s okay?”

Fuck everything. He’s trying so hard to keep the knife’s edge of frustration pointed at Eddy, and here he is stoking a fire in Brett’s chest again. When the next words come, they’re considerably softer than the ones that came before them. “Tell Eddy I’m fine, and he shouldn’t really be worried over such a little thing. I really appreciate his concern, though.” He finally musters up the courage to look over at his best friend, tracing the soft corners of his smile with his gaze. “Thanks, Jordon, you’re the best.”

When Brett turns his focus towards the screen again, Jordon’s eyebrows have climbed up to his hairline by this point, standing at the peak of his forehead. “Uh, okay. You heard all that, right, Brett? Eddy? Good.” He shakes his head, casting his eyes to the heavens as if pleading for patience, and okay, yeah, that whole back-and-forth thing was super embarrassing. Brett just barely manages not to twitch too obviously. “Anyway, email on Thursday. Take a break, you guys, you’re _both_ working too hard. Go get—I dunno, some bubble tea or something.”

They say their goodbyes after, and in the silence after the call-ending _beep_ , he finds he doesn’t know quite what to say.

His best friend, as always, saves the sinking ship. “Are we okay?”

“We’re okay.” Brett breathes in deep, though the air stutters in his windpipe when Eddy gives his shoulder a gentle nudge with his own. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” There’s a hand curling around his shoulder again, but this time, it lets go before the warmth can even settle in. Funny how that simple fact pierces straight through the heart of him. “I’ll go swing by the grocery for a bit, yeah? We’re out of eggs.”

“Okay. Have fun.” Eddy begins to stroll away, and Brett can’t help himself, greedy little creature that he is. “Bubble tea after?”

“Of course,” is the reply, accompanied by an expression so soft, he has to look away, it’s so debilitating. “If you’d like.”

The room feels all the more lifeless with one less soul in it, cheesy as it sounds. Still, there’s an opportunity to be had. Brett straightens his shoulders, soldier-weary resignation in his spine.

Right. Time to head back into battle then.

*

> _How’s Sydney?_
> 
> _It’s been a while since I wrote, I know. Sorry. I’ve been trying to keep busy, which I’m sure you’d approve. Got to be concertmaster - yaay!!!_
> 
> _Yeah. Writing that falls flat when I’m not smiling, huh._
> 
> _See here, keeping busy is a method I’m trying to perfect, a distraction for both head and heart. It’s not exactly perfect yet, but I’m trying. I really am. It helps with the long-distance loving._
> 
> _Heh, long-distance loving. Could make a piece out of that theme, if I had an inkling of Jordon’s talent. You’d find it funny, I think. Making you smile would be all worth it._
> 
> _Here’s something decidedly not funny to balance that out._
> 
> _I can’t. I can’t pretend like I’m okay. Not really. I put up a brave front for you and everyone else, but I can’t. Loneliness is a mistress I’ve acquired, but don’t worry - she can’t and won’t replace you. She keeps my bed warm at night, though. At least I’m not alone._
> 
> _I won’t lie, okay? I’m worried. I’m terrified of the way my body and my thoughts creak and groan, well-oiled machinery without a soul. Lifeless. I’m terrified._
> 
> _But this isn’t about me, now, is it?_
> 
> _I hope you’re doing good over there. I hope you’re living the life you’ve always wanted since the start, chasing your dreams and winning like you always do. I hope you’re happy._
> 
> _God. I miss you like air._
> 
> _Let me tell you a secret: I can’t breathe here without you._

Brett reaches out with his free hand to steady himself on the desk, wide-eyed and ghost-paled. The shaking is back in his fingers with a vengeance.

Sydney. Fucking _Sydney_. The potential pool narrows considerably with that piece of information. Aside from a few of Eddy’s colleagues, there’s only a handful of male people he knows had gone over to Sydney after graduation. Michael. Shaun. Noah. Andy. Tom.

And himself.

Shit.

He clutches at his chest, wills the racing muscle within to calm the fuck down. There’s no way—but then there _could_ be, can’t there? It’s simple elimination, this method he’s employed; the more evidence he lists down, the more facts he writes up, the more he realizes he’s just about ticking every goddamn box off the checklist himself.

 _Himself_. Brett Yang.

(What if?)

There it is again: that dangerous, glittering word. _Maybe_. It’s becoming a real fucking possibility now, isn’t it?

(How hard will he crash and burn, then, when it turns out to be false hope? Only time will tell. Continue on forward; let’s figure this out.)


	8. divisi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a/n: This chapter contains mentions of Toni Wei (and all that _that_ entails) as well as explicit m/m/f content. Please skip the letters and the part immediately after the second letter if this subject matter is uncomfortable for you.

Again, just a reminder: wishful thinking is a _bitch_. She's enchanting and alluring and shamelessly forward, but she's also wholeheartedly cruel. Brett should know, okay; he's an expert on the subject. Still, she's there: intruding on his personal space, spilling unspeakable things into his ear. It's horrible. He can't do anything about it.

Again, it all comes back to the _point_. The matter of dispute.

Hypothesis: Brett Yang is the subject of Eddy Chen's letters.

There's a possibility. Yes, _fine_ , he allows it. It's perfectly logical to assume it's possible, even if every inch of him is screaming foul, screaming disbelief. It's safe to consider, in light of the clues he's gathered so far.

And yet. Here: an obstacle. A variable that cannot be ignored.

—because what about _her_?

*

When he first meets Toni Wei, her fingers are curled around the shiny curvature of her instrument, and she's just finished an impromptu performance of _Zenzenzense._ There's not much of anything to hate or find fault in her, really. She's beautiful, talented, her dry wit as sharp as her kindness is gentle. He's never seen a flautist smile as bright as she does.

Eddy's friends with her; it's how Brett and Toni are introduced in the first place. They're colleagues in the orchestra, and they've even started branching out beyond those hallowed halls in the Twoset-adjacent project they've dubbed the _Konoha Collective_. Brett finds out that Toni likes maid cafes (or rather: any cutesy cafes in general), anime, Animal Crossing, mukbangs, peanut butter, and camo hoodies.

He doesn't know why he knows so much about someone he's only ever spoken to once, but there's something about the way Eddy keeps feeding him these little factoids. Something suspiciously like asking permission, which is kind of ridiculous. He's no one's keeper, let alone—let alone his best friend's. Of course.

And so he doesn't think much of it.

*

The next time he meets Toni Wei, her fingers are curled around Eddy's arm, and he's kissing her cheek with the kind of gentleness reserved for precious things. Beloved things.

Brett doesn't even need to hear the announcement to _know_.

It takes him a self-ordained slap to the face and half an hour in the bathroom to calm himself down enough to congratulate the new couple without flinching. As you do, when you're trying to be fucking happy for your best friend.

*

> _It feels a little bit like betrayal, I'm not gonna lie._

The incredulous laugh is wrenched out of his throat without so much as a warning. _God, you and me both, buddy._

Eddy's been wandering out of the house more often nowadays, talking about wanting to spend more time with friends and sightseeing so he doesn't feel homesick when they leave. Brett would be more concerned if he isn't already scrambling for more time alone so he can get to the bottom of this fucking travesty.

They're leaving for Singapore soon; no doubt Eddy's going to figure out hiding his love letters under his bed for the stupid idea that it really was and move them elsewhere. Somewhere Brett probably won't be able to find them again.

He has mere weeks to figure this out. There's not much time left.

He needs to focus.

> _She told me she liked me. Asked if I would consider going out with her, all prim and proper. Princess-like, even. Can you believe it, that she approached me and not the other way around? I know you'd probably laugh at me if you knew, thinking what a bitch ass I really am._
> 
> _So I didn't tell you. Solves all my problems, huh, not telling?_
> 
> _I don't know how I'm going to do this. Any of this. I've been stuck on you for years, and so this is all new territory. A princess has come to ask for my hand, beautiful and bold, and here I am wasting away for the dragon, the blight, the famine._
> 
> _But then again, you've been my everything for so long. I wouldn't know how to run from you even if you were a natural disaster. Shake me to my core - I'd still beg for you._
> 
> _I think she knows I don't love her. Not yet, anyway - it's too soon for that. But maybe I can grow to like her more than I already do, learn to assign the word 'partner' to her beyond the platonic or the professional._
> 
> _Maybe I can learn to stop thinking of you every time I so much as hear a violin string twinge, and then maybe I can learn to fucking exist without you here._
> 
> _And so maybe, I -_
> 
> _Maybe I need to try and progress beyond this. There will always be a place in my life for you, and I will always be waiting for a chance, a change of heart, anything. But I need to know how to survive without you there. I need to know that you haven't entirely ruined me forever, beyond salvation._
> 
> _You know I love you. I just want to see if I can love someone else the same way I do you._
> 
> _So I'm starting a new experiment. I don't really hold much faith in this, to be honest with you, but we'll see how it goes._
> 
> _When it comes to romantic partners, I could've had worse._

*

The point here, when it all comes down to it, is what comes after confirming the identity of the supposed recipient of Eddy's filthy love babble.

(Again, wishful thinking, meet hypothesis: Brett Yang is the subject of Eddy Chen's letters.)

Which is a fine hypothesis—he's already established this, no matter how ridiculously stupid it still seems—but if it doesn't hold true up 'til the present, if _none_ of the adoration and the affection and everything Brett's seen in these letters still apply to the here and now, what then?

What would be the _point_?

Brett knows where he is in this timeline that Eddy's created on paper. He knows this is when Eddy enters a relationship with Toni that eventually lasts a few years. It's the longest relationship his friend's ever had, and just because it ended—the details of which he isn't exactly privy to—doesn't mean Eddy doesn't still love her to some degree.

And so what would be the point in doing anything if all these words of devotion mean nothing now?

This, ultimately, is why he can't exactly jump to any sort of hopeful, hopeless conclusions. He has to keep reading the letters, find the end of this rabbit hole. Whether it's filled with sharp, pointy rocks or a bed of feather pillows is what he's trying to figure out.

*

When Brett opens up the next letter, he's half expecting Eddy to start spouting declarations of undying love for his then-girlfriend, and then maybe the rest of the letters are actually for Toni, and he can finally stop this bullshit wondering and go back to his old life, back to the nebulous safety of pining away for his best friend and never having to fuck around with _hope_ ever again.

But instead—instead, Eddy writes—

*

> _You continue to make everything harder for me._
> 
> _I know, I know - it's not really your fault. Sorry. I know you wanted to see me, so you paid me a visit. That's fine._
> 
> _But you just had to joke about flirting with my girlfriend, and now I'm seeing inappropriate visions everywhere I go. Not that that's stopped me from imagining you where I want you, but this - this goes beyond anything I've ever thought of before._
> 
> _It's a shameful thing, a strange and delicate thing born from idle wondering, but I want you to know._
> 
> _I imagine us - the three of us. The three of us together. I don't think I need to explain to you what that means, exactly. You know how my mind works when I'm hungry for something, and this? This is a feast I never knew I was starved for._
> 
> _I'd never share you with anyone, in the real world - if I had you, I'd never allow it. But this is fantasy, and I'm greedy, you know this already. I'll take anything of you coming my way._
> 
> _I'd be in the middle. We'd be against the wall - it's always a wall, now, isn't it? She'd be against me, her legs wrapped around my waist, and I'd be pushing into her, my hand around her hips. It's us, just us for now, and then._
> 
> _You'd come around and you'd put those clever fingers in me, and you'd open me up for you, just like that. We're good at dancing together - we've always been. You wouldn't mind her, a third partner won't unsettle this. Set the rhythm for us, darling. We'll follow your lead._
> 
> _This is to say: I want you to fuck me while I fuck her. I want you to kiss her while you fuck me. It doesn't really need that much brainpower, does it?_
> 
> _It's ridiculous. But maybe it's just that I can't imagine being with anyone else. Even now. Even with a bed that isn't empty and a relationship you aren't a part of. Perhaps for always._
> 
> _Another secret for your pile: I think of you sometimes, when she and I are together. And sometimes, rarely - I close my eyes so I can pretend that she's you._
> 
> _It's a betrayal, but it is what it is. I don't know how I can keep my mind from straying. This love - it was always going to hurt someone. One or the other, you and her. But I won't tell. I'd rather it be just me hurting._
> 
> _The experiment's still ongoing, if you wanted to know. I'm just - making concessions. Allowing certain fantasies to prevail. It's not really helping any advancement in the name of science, but can you really blame me? I'm weak when it comes to you._
> 
> _Fuck. I need to read a self-help book._

*

(It's never happened. Of course not. Brett and Toni have only ever danced around the line of civility and nothing more, nothing deeper, and Eddy's never been open to any sort of idea like that. Or at least, Brett's never known until the latest letter.

But.

If it should ever happen, it happens like this:

Her hair, splayed out against the starch white sheets. Her mouth, fallen open and bitten red. Her hips, sliding up and down as she rides her boyfriend into the mattress. His hands, shaking minutely against feverish skin. His eyes, glassy and half-lidded with rapture. His heart, galloping like a wild stallion against that chest.

They'd be kissing, if he had his way. The two of _them_ , while she moves to her leisure, controlling the pace. He'd want his lips on Eddy's while he's fucking her, studying the way he looks while caught in pleasure without the distraction of being caught himself. He'd want his lips on Toni's while she's gasping through the warmth of her boyfriend's mouth on her clit, studying the way his best friend tastes on someone else's tongue. They'd be a tangle of limbs, no start or end or any way of knowing who is wrapped up in who, but that's the point of it.

(The bottom line here is that Brett would've offered himself up on a silver fucking platter to a goddamn threeway if that's what it would take to have the love of his life for a night. Even if he has to _share_.

Pathetic, but true nonetheless. He's not making any excuses on that front.)

*

The thing is: Brett doesn't remember ever having flirted with Toni before.

If he's considering his hypothesis for the sake of completeness, that means he should've flirted with her to be considered as a subject for Eddy's letters, because he did mention such an event occuring. It's a glaring observation to make, really.

So—he hasn't. Done anything. Doesn't remember a single instance of anything untoward _at all_.

He is _not_ fucking wishing for the chance to turn back time to flirt with his best friend's girlfriend, but it's a close thing.

 _God_. It's an absolute mess in his head. He doesn't want to think about anything anymore.

*

(This is what he gets for _not thinking_.)

"Do you ever regret breaking up with Toni?"

Eddy looks up from his phone and frowns at him. Brett keeps his gaze plastered somewhere on his laptop screen, nowhere near the intensity of those dark eyes. "What brings this up?"

"Just wondering." Right, great—an amazing response. He's an _idiot_. "You never got to tell me why you two broke up. You guys had a good thing going on."

If Eddy is confused about the sudden curiosity, he doesn't show it. He just steeples his fingers and hums. "Well, there was a reason for ending things."

"But I thought that you," he catches himself, bites his tongue from continuing. _Just shut the fuck up, Brett_. "Okay. That's—okay. Nevermind, it doesn't matter."

Eddy looks at him steadily. "Doesn't it?"

He shuts his mouth and says nothing.

( _Doesn't it?_ )

(Turns out he doesn't _want_ to know.)


End file.
